ds' queer little top-story studios in dark alleys for recreation,
and got into deep discussions on life and reforms. Sometimes we
celebrated to the extent of a sixty-cent table d'hote dinner in
tucked-away restaurants. We occupied fifty-cent seats at the theater
occasionally, and often from dizzying heights at the opera would gaze
down into the minaret boxes below, while I recalled with a little
feeling of triumph that far-distant time when I had sat thus emblazoned
and imprisoned.

I had cut loose at last. I was proud of myself. In the secret of my soul
I strutted. I was like a boy in his first long trousers. I might not yet
show myself off to the family. They would question the propriety of my
occupation with Mrs. Sewall, but nevertheless I had not failed.
Sometimes lying in my bed at night with all the vague, mysterious roar
of New York outside, my beating heart within me seemed actually to swell
with pride. I was alone in New York; I was independent; I was
self-supporting; I was on the way to success. I used to drop off to
sleep on some of those nights with the sweet promise of victory
pervading my whole being.

One day I ran across an advertisement in the back of a magazine
representing a single wheel with a pair of wings attached to its hub.
It was traveling along without the least difficulty in the world. So
was I. The fifth wheel had acquired wings!

CHAPTER XXI

IN THE SEWALL MANSION

In spite of Mrs. Sewall's crowded engagement calendar, she was a woman
with very few close friends. She was very clever; she could converse
ably; she could entertain brilliantly; and yet she had been unable to
weave herself into any little circle of loyal companions. She was
terribly lonely sometimes.

For the first half-dozen weeks our relations were strictly official. And
then one day just as I was leaving to walk back to my rooms as usual,
Mrs. Sewall, who was just getting into her automobile, asked me if I
would care to ride with her. The lights were all aglow on Fifth Avenue.
We joined the parade in luxurious state. This was what I once had
dreamed of--to be seated beside Mrs. F. Rockridge Sewall in her
automobile, creeping slowly along Fifth Avenue at dusk. Life works out
its patterns for people cunningly, I think. I made some such remark as I
sat there beside Mrs. Sewall.

"How? Tell me," she said, "how has it worked out its pattern cunningly
for you?"

We had never mentioned our former relations. I didn'